Posts In My Head

I run around dreaming of writing.

Day in, day out, I walk around composing posts in my head.

I formulate paragraphs and sentences. Fill in the gaps with funny anecdotes.

All day. All in my head.

Why don’t I put pen to paper (or hand to keyboard)?

Well. Good question.

A baby, a full time job, and a husband, a house. A few reasons.

None, entirely good enough.

Hello writing! I’ve missed you.

I have much to say. And I will attempt to start from where we last left of.

I had a baby! His name is Simba. And he is the cutest little boy you ever saw. Alhamdulillah.

Readers, be prepared for lots of baby posts 😉

Lets …BEGIN!



Writing is Cathartic

I write in bursts.

I don’t know why.

I bottle it in. And bottle it in.

And suddenly, I can’t keep it in anymore.

It spills out of my fingers and onto the page, like spidery whisperings of my heart.

My heart aches sometimes.

And nowadays, the ache doesn’t run down my face, it… can’t.

No relief.

Just a constant ache of living.

Like living, REALLY living is so painful that I need to anaesthetise myself oftentimes in a book, a movie, inconsequential acquaintances.

Yes, I’m sure those with real trauma in their lives feel that way.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. 

Not that kind of running away.

Its running away, from the painfulness of normal, everyday, mundane life.

Don’t you see it?

How our bodies age softly, quietly. How we walk slowly, and willingly to our graves.

Prisoners in this day to day existence.

How we do by rote, the waking up, the going to work, the breakfast and lunches, while the rest of the world falls apart at our feet.

How we don’t notice the beggars, don’t try to ask how sad their lives really are. Where they sleep at night. And what bugs bite at their feet.

How we don’t ask the doorman, the maid, the waiter, how they get by.

How we don’t look beyond our noses. Coz we are afraid of what we will see.

No, this isn’t a rant against the middle class, bourgeoisie life. 

Everyone has a waiter/maid/ someone less fortunate in their lives, they don’t care to ask about. No matter what rung of the social ladder they are on.


Can you hear the sound of the whole world turning their backs on each other?

So they can continue to wake up and go to work.

I do it too.


Writing Is Like Riding A Bike

You don’t forget.

You just get rusty.

Writing is like riding a bike.

We were in La Rochelle, France. Me and my bestie, Munirah. We had rented bright silver velos (bicycles) and were going to cycle round this beautiful island surrounded by azure blue seas.

Mine had a giant basket, and I felt the taste of adventure in the wind.

Until I got on the bike, wobbled, and fell.


Munirah was laughing her butt off.

She said: ‘I thought people can’t forget how to ride a bike!’

Well, they can’t. But they do get rusty.

I hadn’t ridden since I was 12 years old. Thats a certain number of long, long years ago.

So, I got back on the bike, fell a few more times and garnered several pitiful looks from the calm bike-riding Frenchies cycling past me.

But, I eventually stopped wobbling, stopped falling (Thank God!) and got the hang of it!

Hello, writing!

Bear with me, as I wobble over my sentences, and trip over my phrases.

I will eventually get back into the swing of writing.

As I will, into the swing of READING, which of course, is the life-partner of writing.

Love you all.


Rusty pen

In other news (ION), I had no idea writing was like riding a bike!

I haven’t written a post in days and days and days. And I honestly feel …rusty.

The words flow with a bit more difficulty that usual. The letters seem to trip over each other in their haste to be typed, but then get jumbled up about how to lay quietly on the page.


My metaphors stink too.

I guess its deserving really.

If you don’t sharpen a tool at least once in a while, it WILL go blunt.


I hereby sharpen thee! Oh pen of mine!

And I vow not to let you go rusty and unused, unloved and unwanted, unfettered with pregnant words….ever again!

With these words, I hereby renew my vows to thee. And may this journey of similes and adverbs….be littered with smiles and triumphs for a long time to come.

Onwards and beyond!

He lives in a pineapple under the sea!!


Absorbent and porous and yellow is he.



Now that that’s outta the way…

What I wanted to say was…

I am a sponge. A ‘literary’ Sponge Bob.

I am an emotional sponge. An intellectual sponge. A mojo sponge. A mood sponge. A blogging sponge.

The blogs, books, magazines etcetera that I read influence how I write.

If I was a superhero, I would be the one whose power was to absorb other peoples’ power.


Now, its an okay-ish power. If you absorb nice moods, good feelings and good mojo.

But when you absorb negativity (the sponge doesn’t discriminate, yo) it can result in some weird and wonderful situations.

After watching an Indian flick, I get all ….head bobby, and romantic, and emotional. LOL.

After reading a really intense philosophical book…yeah you guessed it….I get all Freudian on everyone.

And after spending time with my very blonde friends, I realize that I have deep fried my last remaining brain cell.

Why am I telling you this?


Its because I want to apologize.

I feel my writes sometimes lack any form of coherence. One minute I’m a touchy feely blogger. The next I have decided I am strongly political. One minute I am a feminist and an activist. And the next, I am a proud Muslim Blogger.


To be fair, this blog is a reflection of the writer. A mirror image of QQ. And I can be any one of the above types of blogger, or ALL of them. Maybe all in one day.

However, I should set a specific TONE for this blog.

A feel.

A focus.

You know?

Like, if u read my writes anywhere  else; On another blog, or site, or paper, or magazine (who knows?! I think big!) , you will automatically know that it’s me! You would smile and nod. And even wave! ‘Hi QQ. We see you!’


I want a distinctive taste.

A unique scent.

A personalized stamp to my work. Like a genomic blueprint.


I shall get there.

But, to be a master, one must first study the greats.

So in my path to being a better writer, I shall experiment with different writing styles.

Dear reader.

Bear with me, as I take a journey through the Shakespears and the Chinua Achebes. The Quraan, and the Emily Brontes. The blogs and the magazines.

My ‘sponge-like style’ is where we are at.

Where we are going? Who knows…

Let’s take a journey.




I Been Gone, Gone For So Long

Monkeys Blogging

Ya, I don't know what that means either

‘Sup peeps.

Sorry about the lack of posts lately.

Many, many, many apologies.

You can look forward to several new posts coming up ASAP.

And I hope never, ever, ever to be parted from Qilma and my beloved readers ever, ever again.


Withdrawal symptoms people. REAL symptoms yo.

It was rough.

Lets just say I’m glad I’m back.

And that leprechaun-in-a-tutu incident (he was begging me to put up a post) is totally behind me now.

Mad Love.


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